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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462568">Victor R. Chase</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howwwever/pseuds/Howwwever'>Howwwever</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Internal Monologue, Introspection, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?, mentions of abuse, unhealthy family dynamics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:48:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462568</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howwwever/pseuds/Howwwever</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I will sometimes just write little things, when my DnD character, Victor, gives me too many emotions.<br/>Adding tags as I go.<br/>I hope you enjoy this.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So hey! How nice of you to be here.<br/>I wrote this at 2am, so excuse bad writing and typos. I just had to get the feelings out before bed.<br/>Maybe you will enjoy this. I certainly hope you do.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>One belief, which was punched into me ever since I was a little child, was that people deserved pain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If someone was not strong enough to defend what they had, and that included their life, they were not worthy of having it. If someone messed up, let their family down, fucked up an order, they were to be punished. And so on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had always made sense to me. I had seen it in nature.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When you were weak, useless and therefore a threat to the wellbeing of the community, you'd die. That's why I, for a long time, held onto the thought that pain was really just a generous alternative to death.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The punishment was a correction of failure, one that was less cruel and less raw than death. Every scar a warning, if you will. Every scream was a reminder that you deserved death for your uselessness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only reason of course, in that logic, that I wasn't dead yet, was that my father loved me so much. So much so that he didn't throw me out in the dirt to let me die at the first failure, or the second one or even the third.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, he loved me enough to believe that I could be better. That I could be useful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, no one has to tell me how messed up that sounds. But it's all I've known. And you're lying if you tell me that not at least part of that just made a little sense to you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That is not to say that I liked the pain. I merely thought it was necessary. How else was I to make up for my mistakes? Rules and regulations, punishment and consequences. Those were necessary for a society or a family to function. There was other stuff of course, that was taught to me. That some people were just worth less than others, if they were weak enough to let themselves be enslaved.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or that our lives were to be dedicated to some demon that lives in the ocean. All that also made sense to me at some point, and partly still does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were situations in my life where these beliefs were tested, challenged by the pure cruelty of my father's doing. Not many times, no. More often than not, I accepted everything that happened as purposeful and vital.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But sometimes, the pain seemed to be too much. The stakes, too high to feel fair. The scars, too many to be justified.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Don't get me wrong. I realise that my father is a jerk with a sadistic need to inflict pain and fear into his environment. I am not under some crazy illusion that my father is actually a great guy. He's not. I'm not a child anymore and I am not stupid or delusional either. That is where the conflict lies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I am not supposed to be this eager to please him, but I am. His disapproval hurts, deeper than any of his knives or claws. The disappointment in his eye makes me want to throw up. I hear myself sounding like a pathetic little baby, okay? I know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stupid boy, who is still trying to make daddy proud. Oh, how cute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I am not supposed to feel like I deserve the pain as a consequence to my shortcomings. But I do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I should just turn my back and leave. But I can't. Cannot be a traitor, cannot be a disappointment. I want to be useful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that's when I realise how much control that fucking asshole actually has over me. And how little I can do to fix this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If someone was not strong enough to defend what they had, and that included their life, they were not worthy of having it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If someone wasn't strong enough to break free from their father's control, if they were not capable enough to fight for their freedom, if they were not smart enough to run and hide… if they were not able to get rid of the pain… then they were simply not worthy of any of those things.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I guess, the truth is I knew I had fucked up the moment I set foot in that god forsaken city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The job… I was in over my head from the beginning. The first day of investigation and looking around and I already realised that my father had only sent me there because he wanted to see me fail. To have an excuse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no way I could have succeeded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the end, when it all went wrong, it still managed to catch me by surprise. The sinking feeling of failure. The crushing sickness in my stomach. The knowledge of what was coming. I could already feel the punishment, could see the self-righteous grin on my father’s face, could sense the sharp blades cutting into my skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course now I know that I had no actual idea of what was coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had not expected to meet a demon lord. I had not expected for him to threaten me. I had especially not expected to be thrown from one impossible task to the next one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I am entirely honest, something about it felt familiar at first. The rushing in my ears, the fear. Just nodding. Just saying yes. Not asking any questions, even if your mind came up with thousands of them each second. Asking questions is questioning your superior and questioning your superior is what gets you killed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, I had had time to sit back and think about it. Me. A simple assassin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Supposed to be making sure God dies I guess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the bright side. I was not sent out</span>
  <em>
    <span> to kill a God.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No. I was simply meant to </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep people from helping him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The rest was taken care of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demon lord, I refuse to say his name… names are dangerous like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one I had been supposed to dedicate my entire life to, but had, in all honesty, never really given a damn about. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I am not a traitor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I am just… uhm. Not that much into religion. That’s all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The funny thing is, he didn’t scare me as much as you’d suspect a demon lord to scare you. He, by far, did not scare me as much as my father. Which is irrational at best and the sign of a severe mental issue at worst. Because, you see, obviously the demon lord has probably more power over me and my life and everything. But in reality things feel different.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My father. He holds in his hands the most powerful weapon against me. I am never sure on how much credit exactly I should actually give him in the end. If he is as smart and vicious as I think, or if things just always turn out to his favour. If maybe the plot isn’t as deep as I suspect it to be. If, in all reality, he is just cruel and violent and not an evil genius at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever. He does hold my greatest weakness in the palm of his hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whether he had always held my brother close, just so he could use him against me or if it was just coincidence didn’t really matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whether my father knows that he will get nowhere threatening to kill me. That even his torture and forms of punishment have their limits. That, the only thing I really care about, the only thing I would risk everything for, and I mean absolutely everything (sorry Alice, I love you baby) is my brother. Who probably doesn’t realise it. Who probably cannot foresee the danger I may push him into. Who is the only person who would not even suspect me of inflicting pain on him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So now, I stand here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If none of that made any sense to you, do not worry. It doesn’t make much sense to me either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right now… the feeling is nothing I can describe. It is like a maddening panic, while not knowing what to be afraid of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Have you ever watched a child play with an air balloon. I mean, a small child. I used to watch my brother a lot, he is four years younger than me and from time to time I got stuck babysitting. So I have watched a four year old gripping an air balloon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing about air balloons is, they don't break instantly. It’s not like the kid grabs it and then BANG and it’s over with. Now, they can play around with it for a while. Sitting on it. Stomping on it. Hugging it, holding it close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe five minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe an hour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You watch this in absolute silence. And the silence is what makes it bad. Like, really bad. Cause of course, you know the child is going to pop that balloon. It is gonna burst in a loud, terrifying bang. You know it’s gonna happen. It’s inevitable. But you don’t know when. So you wait.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I guess that is the kind of anxious position I am in right now. Just. A million times worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know this shit is going to blow up right in my face. I know the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bang </span>
  </em>
  <span>is coming. But right now, it's silent. So I wait.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is worse. I realise it now, as I write this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is worse than the pain. It is worse than the punishment. The waiting is worse. I don’t know how long it will last. I can't just close my eyes and stick it out… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just stick it out, son. You’re a leader, act like it and man up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is nothing NOTHING to man up to though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No beast to kill. No drink to poison. No corpse to bury. No sunglasses to steal. Nothing I can just </span>
  <em>
    <span>get over with.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Cause nothing has happened yet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How am I supposed to make a plan, when I don’t know what the ground rules are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I just sit. And I wait. And I turn the demon lord’s symbol, hanging around my neck, in my hands. And I write my stupid journal. And I wait. For the pain that is, inevitably so, to come.</span>
</p><p> </p>
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